Leaning forward over the desk, her hands braced on its leather top, Ayesha read the old-fashioned type, a frown forming above her pencil-thin eyebrows. “So-oo,” she murmured, “they couldn’t identify Harold’s body after the battle. Why?” She read further, her mouth set in a grim line. “One source says William and some of his knights really did a number on Harold’s corpse. They mutilated it, cut off his head, hacked off his penis. They had to bring in his girlfriend, Edith the Swan-necked. She identified him.”
“Poor woman,” Joram commented. “Then what?”
“His mother and Edith both begged William to release the body. So did some monks from Waltham, which Harold was apparently patron of. Hence the Waltham Abbey story, I suppose. The rest is hearsay. Some say William had the body burned on the shore. Sort of a Viking funeral. Others say he was buried nearby. Not where, though.
“If William was responsible for mutilating the corpse, I can understand him not wanting anyone to see the remains. That sort of thing wasn’t taken lightly. William made himself out to be a Christian monarch. He was well in with the pope and he wouldn’t have wanted to jeopardize that relationship.”
Ayesha couldn’t have cared less about William’s concern for his reputation with the pope. “So he was maybe buried at Waltham. Or burned on the shore. Or buried nearby. Possibly somewhere near the site of Battle Abbey. It’s never been confirmed. Although he must have been buried, not burned and his ashes scattered. Otherwise the clue would be meaningless—Harold Godwinson, where he lies.”
“There has to be something else,” Joram agreed. “So much has been lost over time, but it’s incredible what can be learned from even a fragment of information. Look at the research that led to the discovery of the body of Richard III. The whereabouts of his burial place had been lost for five centuries until he was found beneath a parking lot in Leicester. The dig was based on the flimsiest evidence.”
The librarian opened a newspaper story about the exhumation of bones from graves at Waltham. There had been talk of DNA matching with people who claimed descent from Harold, Ayesha read. “That has to be suspect, after nearly a thousand years.” But. She looked at the tiny scroll they’d retrieved from the tomb of Ethelred.
“Someone knew,” she continued. “A Knight of the Temple? No! What am I saying? The Templars were long gone by the time the Hospitallers had the Maltese Falcon made for the emperor. So it was a Knight of the Hospital. Someone from that order who secreted the scroll in the Falcon. A Hospitaller, whoever he was, would not have made such a definite statement without being certain of his facts.”
“So, he knew,” Joram said. “Fine. How did he know?”
She stared into his blue eyes. So like Lawrence’s. A pulse throbbed in her temples. Other, dangerous sensations stirred. “The secret must have been passed on by the Templars to the Hospitallers. It would have made sense to entrust it to their companion order when they were threatened. Hold on! Google the Templars, would you?”
When Joram did as she asked, Ayesha skimmed the new text. “Right,” she nodded. “The Templars weren’t established till decades after Hastings.”
Joram pursed his lips. “So how would a Templar or a Hospitaller have known where Harold was buried, if it was kept a secret?”
“This knight.” She stared through the windows at the roofs of St. Paul’s. “This Hospitaller. Whoever he was. He hid a clue in Ethelred’s tomb, pointing to the tomb of Harold. So it’s a good bet he was English. How would an English knight have known where to look for Harold’s tomb?” Her skin tingled suddenly. Goose bumps prickled her arms. There had been a mention, just a mention, in one of the articles she’d read. About the search for Harold’s body after the battle. “The Bayeux Tapestry.”
“My God! Of course!”
Her heart hammering, Ayesha attacked the keyboard of Joram’s laptop. Doubts were already surfacing. Surely, with such a famous and studied historical record as the Bayeux Tapestry, the nearly 230-foot-long cloth that depicted the events leading up to the Norman Conquest, someone would have noticed by now if there was something in it. Some allusion to Harold’s burial place. She brought up a website that provided images of the scenes from the Bayeux Tapestry. She reviewed each of them and their Latin annotations in turn, resisting the urge to jump ahead. Joram perched on the desk beside her, watching her. She shifted sideways so he could see the screen. She was intensely aware of his gaze; felt the skin on the back of her neck grow warm.
She came to the battle scenes and the aftermath. She squinted at the main panels. Then the smaller ones beneath. Her heart sank. “Shit!” She pushed back the chair. “I was so sure.”
“Wait.” Joram had leaned forward. “There’s something about additional panels recently discovered in a crypt beneath Bayeux Cathedral. Fragments only. Are they online, too?”
Once more Ayesha’s fingers raced across the keyboard. “They are! Look!” She jabbed her finger at the screen. The tiny image depicted what looked like a shrouded corpse being lowered into a grave.
“The words? What do they say?”
“Harold Godwinus. Proelium Abbey.”
“Proelium? Latin for fight?”
“Or battle. Battle Abbey.”
“It looks like we’re in for a trip to Hastings.” Joram raised his martini glass in a silent toast.
“Battle is near Hastings, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The abbey—or its ruins—look over the site of the battlefield. The village of Battle grew up around the abbey and survived its dissolution by Henry VIII.” Joram looked at his watch. “There’s a train from Victoria.”
While Joram searched the National Rail website, Ayesha walked to the windows that overlooked the Thames. A police launch was making its way slowly upriver. She watched it out of sight, her thoughts turning to Battle Abbey. What would they find there? Harold Godwinson’s tomb? Or another clue? If they did find Harold’s tomb, what then? What about Noel Malcolm’s people? And Susannah. What had happened to her? She glanced at Joram. Tried to examine her feelings for him. Gave up.
Chapter 20
“Through here, Dame Imogen.” McKenzie ushered the head of MI5 into a private room on the heavily secured top floor of St. Thomas’s Hospital. A flak-jacketed and helmeted policeman armed with a submachine gun scrutinized her ID. Another policeman, a twin of the first, only bigger, was planted firmly in front of a closed door on the far side of the room.
“The prime minister is really awake?” Imogen could hardly believe it when McKenzie had called her with the news that Susannah Armstrong was conscious and asking to speak with her. Coming hard on the heels of her conversation with Danforth, it had given her a new lease on life. She wasn’t exactly walking on air, but she felt like a different person from the one who’d left Downing Street earlier that night.
“She is.” The eminent physician grinned. “It’s quite miraculous. Even if I say so myself. Please keep your visit brief. What she needs now is rest. Sleep. As much as possible.” He nodded to the police sentry, who opened the door into the room beyond. Imogen noticed that the officer’s finger never moved from the trigger of his Heckler & Koch. She approved.
“Of course.” She crossed the room in the physician’s wake and stepped through the doorway on the far side. The policeman closed the door behind her.
“Imogen.”
She stopped. It was all she could do not to cry out in shock.
Susannah Armstrong was propped up against a brace of pillows, her long black hair splayed over them. Her arms, into which various tubes were connected, lay across the hospital blanket. What shocked Imogen was that the prime minister’s skin, normally pale white, was near translucent.
“Come closer.” The prime minister’s voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.
Imogen approached the bed. She sat down on a visitor’s chair and leaned in. Susannah’s eyes were bright, she saw, and she seemed to be breathing easily and without assistance. Imogen breathed a little easier herself, although the prime
minister’s color still scared her.
“What’s happening, Imogen? McKenzie won’t tell me a damn thing.”
“Noel Malcolm’s taken charge as acting PM.”
“That’s to be expected. He’ll be hoping for more than acting, though. What’s his game?”
“He’s moving fast.” Imogen’s hopes rose. Susannah’s voice had sounded stronger with each word. “There’s a full party room meeting in the morning to confirm him as acting PM. He thinks that’s a wrap. He’s not wrong, from what I hear. The big news is that he’s going all out to get his private member’s bill to break up the union passed in the House. The debate will be this afternoon.”
“He’s going ahead with the vote?” The prime minister ground the words through clenched teeth.
“I’m afraid so. I think he’s banking on using what’s happened to you to garner additional support.”
“Bastard!” Susannah pushed herself up. She groaned and sank back against the pillows. “I’ve got to get out of here! So help me I’m going to fire that prick. I should have done it long ago.”
“Wonderful. I applaud the idea. First you’ve got to get better. It’s no good killing yourself.”
“You’re with me, Imogen?”
“Of course. Norman, too.”
“Others?”
“Some of the Scots. The Northern Irish MPs—the Protestants anyway.”
“And the English?”
Imogen shook her head. “The truth is everybody thinks you’re dead. Or as good as dead. Malcolm is seen as your natural successor.”
Susannah snorted. “He’s a natural fucking disaster, that’s what he is.”
Imogen remembered McKenzie’s admonition not to tire Susannah. “You know what they’re like. Not so much rats leaving the sinking ship, as throwing one another off the gangplank in the rush to pledge loyalty to the new boss.”
“Cowardly fucks. You said there’s more. What else?”
“Ayesha Ryder.”
“Ayesha? What about her?” Susannah frowned. As if she was struggling to remember something. “We met…earlier. Today? No. Yesterday it would have been.”
“I know. She was the last one to see you.”
“What? No! I said goodbye to Ayesha late afternoon. When she left Chequers. I had several meetings back at Number 10 after that. The last one was with Malcolm and Philip Balfour. Then Bebe Daniels came to see me. Late. Like always.” Her eyes widened. “Bebe gave me a drink! Whiskey. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“Daniels!” Imogen clutched the edge of Susannah’s hospital blanket with both hands. Her mind raced. “I knew it!”
“What?”
“She said you and Ayesha had been having an affair. You broke it off and Ayesha threatened you if you didn’t take her back.”
“Fucking hell! You believed her?”
“Of course not.” Imogen dropped her eyes.
Susannah chuckled. More than anything, the sound gave Imogen cause for hope. “I couldn’t blame you if you did.” The prime minister grinned sheepishly. “Truth is I have hit on Ayesha. She wasn’t interested. So what does this mean? Why would Bebe want to poison me? I can’t believe there’s a personal motive. She must be working for someone—she could hardly have got hold of polonium on her own.”
“How long has Daniels been with you?”
“Six months. More or less.” Susannah’s voice strengthened with anger. “She had outstanding credentials, references. You know she worked for MI6?”
Imogen gaped at her prime minister. “Why wasn’t I told?” And why hadn’t her own people told her this? What the hell was going on? Those bastards at Six! They had to be up to something. Even they wouldn’t have tried to assassinate the PM, though. Would they?
“Surely you don’t personally vet all senior government employees?”
“No. Of course not. Still…” Imogen shook her head. Tried to clear her thoughts. Daniels had worked for Six. Now she was CIA’s source in Downing Street. Who was she really working for? “That she was with Six explains a lot,” she said, thinking aloud. “Her talent at lying; access to polonium, or knowledge of where she might source it. It opens wide the possibilities….” She decided not to tell the prime minister about CIA. That would send her apoplectic. Likely set back her recovery. Imogen also needed to maintain her relationship with Danforth. She made a face. “This is going to open one hell of a can of worms.”
“Are you saying the attempted assassination of your prime minister hasn’t already done that?” Susannah did her best to sound aggrieved, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
Imogen smiled. “You know it will. The shit will hit the fan in all directions. I’ll be splattered along with it. You’ll be looking for a new head of MI5.”
“Like hell I will!” Susannah reached across the bedclothes and grasped her hand. “You’re staying, Imogen. Come hell or high water!” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about resigning! I’m telling you now, I won’t accept it.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Imogen cleared her throat, fought to recover her equilibrium. “Bebe Daniels. Did someone in particular recommend her to you?”
Susannah stared at Imogen with eyes tired beyond imagining. “Malcolm.”
Imogen pushed back her chair and stood. “There’s something else. Malcolm has accused Ayesha of stealing a valuable artifact from Number 10—the Maltese Falcon.”
“The Falcon! Ayesha told me about it. She was searching for it. I’ve never seen it. It certainly wasn’t stolen from Number 10. By Ayesha, or anyone else. I do know that Malcolm wants it. Supposedly it contains a clue to where to find Harold’s sword—the big symbol for his plan for English independence.”
“So if Malcolm wants the bird, and says Ayesha has stolen it—”
“Then Ayesha probably has the bird.” The prime minister smiled. “Find her, Imogen. Find the Maltese Falcon. Stop Malcolm.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” Imogen hesitated, then: “Would you do something for me?”
“Name it.”
“It’s a big ask.”
“For heaven’s sake—”
“Keep dying.”
“What…?” Light dawned in Susannah’s eyes. “All right. But not for long. You understand?”
“Don’t worry.” Imogen took her prime minister’s hands and clasped them between both of hers. “Your resurrection can’t come soon enough for me.”
—
As Imogen settled back against the cushions in the rear compartment of her official car outside St. Thomas’s, she was smiling grimly. The best-laid plans of mice and Noel Malcolm could be unraveled. She just needed to find some loose ends and start pulling. Bebe Daniels seemed like the perfect place to begin.
Chapter 21
Expert with lock picks, Longo experienced little difficulty with the front door to Lady Madrigal Carey’s apartment, having first broken into the parking garage beneath her building and gained entrance to the internal stairs. The building dated from the mid-nineteenth century; despite its upmarket Mayfair location, there were no electronic alarm systems to deal with. No lights had showed from the apartment windows on the top floor. The old lady was probably sound asleep. The Maltese Falcon was inside her apartment, he was sure. It was simply a matter of finding it. Then he’d be back in Bebe Daniels’s good graces. And into her bed, he hoped.
He stepped into a lobby space, thickly carpeted. A hall opened on the right. SIG Sauer in one hand, he advanced to a door at the far end. The door was slightly ajar. He nudged it wider with his elbow, stepped through, and shone his light around the room. He took in the crowded bookcases. The baby grand piano covered in framed photographs. Something else.
“Fuck me!” he exclaimed.
“Not likely.”
Lights flashed on, dazzling Longo. He raised his arms in front of his face, blinking furiously to recover his sight. When he could see again, he stared at the old lady who sat in an armchair beside the fireplace. In her gnarled hands she held a g
un. A Webley. World War II vintage or older. The gun may have been old, the lady even older, but the hands that pointed the weapon at him were rock steady. Still, how quick could she be? He raised his pistol.
“Tatiana,” Lady Madrigal said.
Something hard pressed into the base of his spine. Fuck.
“Drop it,” a woman’s voice spoke into his ear. A much younger woman.
He dropped it. An elegantly booted foot kicked it out of reach.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you who you are? Or who you’re working for?” Lady Madrigal asked him.
Longo shook his head, mentally cursing his stupidity. The old bitch had got the drop on him. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. She’d call the police. Fuck. Daniels was not going to be happy.
“Tatiana,” Lady Madrigal said. “Udaril yego po golove, pozhaluysta.”
Longo knew some Russian. It sounded like Lady Madrigal had told Tatiana to hit him over the head. “Hey!” He turned, stopping when the pressure against his spine increased.
“Yeshʹte derʹmo ublyudok.” Tatiana spoke in his ear.
Eat shit, motherfucker, he had time to translate. Then the ceiling fell on his head and everything went white.
Chapter 22
Noel Malcolm slammed down the phone. Then he thumped the desk with his huge fist. The American president had tried to twist his arm, talk him out of going ahead with the vote on his bill for a referendum to break up the United Kingdom. Veiled threats had been made. And not-so-veiled threats.
“Fuck him!” Malcolm stared at his reflection in the window. “There isn’t a damned thing he can do about it.” Even as he spoke the words he knew he was lying to himself. There were any number of things the Americans could do. Bastards.
“Mr. Malcolm?”
He swung round. A woman stood just inside his office door. Early forties, fashionably dressed in a dark blue pencil skirt and matching jacket, she was obviously unsure of her welcome. He forced a smile. Pushed himself to his feet. The nation’s most-read newspaper columnist and blogger was not someone he could afford to offend. “Miss Ross. Donna. Come in. Please, sit down.”
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